Five
Matt woke up the next morning feeling a little hungover from his twelve-hour shift. Since it was a Monday, he had no official duties until his one o’clock class on emergency medicine with the sophomore medical students.
He climbed slowly out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen, smacking his lips. He hated falling asleep in his clothes. It made him feel rumpled and dirty until he took his shower.
In the kitchen, he put a pot of coffee to brewing and opened the freezer. He took out a can of frozen orange-juice concentrate and a package of frozen strawberries and put them on the bar to thaw while he took a shower.
Once he’d scrubbed the grime of the ER out of his skin and hair, and brushed the taste of stale coffee off his teeth, he threw on a terry cloth robe and went back into the kitchen. He put the orange juice and the strawberries in a blender and turned it on while he poured himself a cup of coffee.
Taking the morning paper off the front step, he took his coffee and fruit drink out on his porch. He sat at the table there and began the process of starting his day.
After downing his coffee and juice, he went to his bedroom to get dressed for the day. When he took his robe off and threw it on the bed, he noticed the leather journal lying on his nightstand. He’d forgotten all about it.
He put on some jeans and a short-sleeved cotton shirt and took the journal into his living room. After fixing himself another cup of coffee, he sat in his favorite chair and opened the journal. In faded but still legible India ink, the top of the page was labeled with the date June 24, 1870. Matt felt the page with his fingers. Parchment. Perhaps the book was that old after all. He settled back in his chair and began to read.
Jesus, Matt thought after he’d scanned the first few pages. This must be Niemann’s diary. He glanced back at the entry of the first page. If the journal was accurate, that would have made him over two hundred years old. He opened the journal back up and continued to read, his forgotten coffee growing cold on the table next to him.
An hour and a half later, Matt slowly closed the journal and leaned back in his chair. He found he was covered with sweat and shivering. After reading the innermost thoughts of the monster he knew as Roger Niemann, he felt almost sorry for the creature. It was clear from his journal he’d struggled as best he could against his fate . . . trying his best to satisfy his fiendish cravings while doing as little damage as he could. Still, Matt thought, the man was an admitted killer of no telling how many innocent people over two hundred years.
Damon had been right—the book was dynamite. Matt knew he’d have to share its contents with his friends as soon as possible. There might just be something in the book that would shed some light on the mysterious illness that affected TJ after being forced to drink the creature’s blood.
He put the journal on the side table and went to take another shower. He felt dirty just from reading about the horrors of Niemann’s life.
After he finished his class that afternoon, Matt put in a call to Shooter at the police station.
“This is Detective Kowolski,” Shooter said as he answered the phone.
“Hey, Shooter. It’s Matt.”
“Yo, Doc. What’s happenin’?” Shooter asked in his typically jovial voice.
“I saw Damon yesterday in the hospital,” Matt answered.
Shooter’s voice sobered. Damon was a hero of his and a man he respected above all others in the Houston police bureaucracy. “How’s he doing?”
“He came through his surgery all right this morning. His doc says he’s gonna be just fine.”
“That’s a relief,” Shooter said. “We need him back here as soon as possible.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The lieutenant that took his place is a raving asshole—”
“Shooter,” Matt interrupted, “Damon gave me something they found on Niemann’s boat the night of the attack.”
“Yeah? What?”
“A journal. A sort of diary he’d written about his life.”
“That must be interesting reading,” Shooter said sarcastically. “The ravings of a lunatic.”
“Believe it or not, it’s fascinating,” Matt said. “In fact, I’d like to go over it with you and the girls tonight.”
“I don’t know, Matt,” Shooter said. “I’d kinda like to put all that behind us.” He paused and Matt could hear him take a deep breath. “TJ’s acting strange enough without being reminded of what happened to her before.”
“I think we need to do it, Shooter. For TJ, if nothing else,” Matt pleaded. “There are some things in the book that may help TJ get over this.”
Shooter’s voice changed at Matt’s mention of helping TJ. “In that case, I’ll be there,” he said firmly.
“How about I whip up some spaghetti and meatballs and we make a night of it?”
“Sure. I’ll bring the wine.”
Matt groaned. “Only if you promise not to buy that cheap Chianti you brought last time.”
“OK, OK, I’ll spring for a really good red, maybe some Mad Dog Twenty-Twenty this time,” Shooter said, referring to the preferred drink of the winos who lived in Houston’s Fifth Ward.
“Shooter . . . ,” Matt said.
“All right. How about some hardy Gallo Burgundy?”
“Try some Soave and it’s a deal,” Matt said.
“See ya at seven,” Shooter said, and hung up.
Matt then dialed Sam in the pathology office and made her the same offer.
“You gonna have real anchovies in the Caesar salad?” she asked.
“Jeez, girl, I’m offering you a home-cooked meal of my best dish and you’re quibbling over fish in the salad?”
“All right,” she said, chuckling. Then her voice became more serious. “Do you think TJ should be there? She’s still pretty shaken about what Niemann did to her.”
Matt considered it for a moment, finally answering, “Yeah, I do. After all, it’s her condition we’re gonna be discussing and trying to find a cure for. It’s her right to know all the facts.”
Sam sighed, still unsure of the wisdom of revisiting TJ’s pain. After a moment, she said, “We’ll be there. Can we bring anything?”
“Sure. Could you stop off at the bakery on Rice Boulevard and pick up some of their garlic French bread?”
“That’s a deal,” she answered, adding in a low voice, “But, Matt, I sure hope you know what you’re doing.”
“So do I, babe,” Matt said. “So do I.”